


Miscommunications

by d8rkmessngr



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9648242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d8rkmessngr/pseuds/d8rkmessngr
Summary: It's done. It's over. Someone, however, needed to tell Eames's subconscious that. Or, maybeArthurneeded to get the message?





	

When they were down on the second dream level, Arthur was pleasantly surprised to discover the lobby was painted in dark jewel tones of blues and greens. In fact, Arthur owned a few ties in the same colors. And during a dream, he may or may not have dreamt out waistcoats in the same shades. Waistcoats, as nice as they were, weren't practical in the waking reality.

Next to him, Dom tilted his head up to consider the domed ceiling and its scalloped stonework that smoothed out into tight, coffered panels. The space, despite its rather ornate ceiling, was surprisingly symmetrical even as the pillars that stood around them loomed like free floating arches. 

"This wasn't part of the original designs," Dom complained. He ran a hand through his hair, looking once more like a harried father than their extractor and de facto leader. The problem was he also started to talk to them like his children as home and work jumbled together with each passing day of freedom. 

Dom shot Ariadne a frown. "Our Mark is into French Baroque; this is more Italian Renaissance."

It was a shame. It was indeed Renaissance, one of his favorite styles, but Dom was right.

"This is nice," Arthur told Ariadne regretfully, "But it's all wrong."

Ariadne scowled at the domed ceiling as well. Apparently, Arthur was the only one who was impressed.

"This wasn't the model I showed Eames," Ariadne said. She looked baffled. Her eyes oscillated from Dom to Arthur as if hoping someone else would agree. "This wasn't the model I wanted him to dream up for us to test out."

Above them, the strains of a French melody floated.

"At least Eames got that part right," Dom muttered as the strains grew louder. 

As they drifted back up to the first level, Arthur noted the musical cue. A warm glow flushed bone deep in his chest. 

Strange Eames chose this particular song as the kick. Arthur hasn't heard this song in a long time.

 

 

On a whim, Arthur chose to wear the dark cobalt blue tie under his sweater the next day. It was one of his favorites.

But after Arthur caught Eames staring at it for the fourth time, Arthur remembered Eames brought him this tie from a street vendor during an impromptu evening stroll down a Napoli piazza. The silk was cool yet hot against his skin when Eames brushed the fabric against his Adam's apple before dragging it down to pool slyly over his groin.

Arthur undid the tie and kept it stuffed in his pocket for the rest of the day.

 

 

The bar was decorated with walnut wood with whorls of rich chocolate veining. The place was dimly lit and filled with galvanized steel tables atop thick spindles of wrought iron. The chairs were stiff backed yet generously cushioned with pillows of maroon leather. 

Arthur wanted to stay here all day. 

Sadly, there was only an hour in this level and twenty one minutes was already spent fine tuning Eames's forgery. Eames had decided on the fresh face looking, stammering court clerk the Mark apparently couldn't stop staring on his bus to work. Luckily, their Mark never knew the man's name, too caught up with his increasingly creepy surveillance to brave an introduction. Hopefully, Eames's facsimile would be able to coax the location of the real tax records out of their Mark.

Dom paced the room. He dismissed the bar patrons. He still has the bad habit of either underestimating or overestimating projections. Luckily, the patrons ignored Dom in return. They were fixated on the jazz singer crooning songs on the small stage. The words were soft, barely discernible, but Arthur knew the words because he owned four of the albums. They were still in his London flat.

Arthur's mouth pursed.

Apartment. Not flat. And not his. Not anymore.

Scowling into what was cradled in his hand, Arthur took a deep drink while Dom poked and prodded each seat like a nap-deprived toddler. 

Arthur paused. He glanced down at his glass.

The whiskey in Arthur's glass was amber in color and tobacco in taste. It slipped bitter across his tongue and warm down his throat. 

Arthur squinted into his glass, momentarily distracted as he tried to place where he drank this before. Belgium? No. San Francisco. No, wait; it was a dive in Hell's Kitchen in New York. Two men were after them; Arthur had a bullet in his shoulder and Eames had no bullets in his Sig. The humor of where they ended up hiding for two weeks wasn't lost to either of them.

It was also the first time they had—

Arthur pushed the glass away. The back of his throat soured. A part of him wanted to pull the snifter closer so he could savor the smokiness of the drink and remember how it tasted in Eames's breath when their mouths connected, muffling Arthur's groan after a deep thrust almost spilled them both onto the hotel room's maroon carpet— 

"And this is where Eames plans to seduce our Mark?" Ariadne asked. She sat opposite of Arthur, dressed in a soft beige suit to match the rest of the patrons. Too bad her drink made her stand out; it was pink and fizzy. Arthur made a mental note to talk to their fledging architect about blending in. 

On the other side of the room, Dom kicked a bar table. His lips thinned as he considered its wobble.

"I still say the Mark's apartment made better sense," Dom muttered. He was miffed because he wanted to recreate the space. Dom has a weak spot for Greek Revival. 

"The boy he has a crush on suddenly showing up in his apartment?" Ariadne pointed out. "How does that make sense?"

"Maybe he's delivering a pizza?" Arthur muttered. "Or there to fix his cable?"

Ariadne snorted into her carbonated drink and hummed a raunchy tune under her breath.

Dom grumbled, but Arthur caught the small smile he tried to hide behind a hand. Arthur felt a pang as he noted the fond, almost indulgent look Dom sent Ariadne before clearing his voice, back to business again.

Arthur glanced back down into his drink. He remembered how odd it felt on his face whenever he made the same expression. He recalled the moments—brief yet stunning in their clarity—he succumbed to the same soft emotion that involuntarily shaped his face to the one Dom first cast to Mal and now to Ariadne. 

A surprisingly funny comment, the way thick fingers flicked the hammer of a lighter, the way the lines of his mouth rounded and shaped his name, the tilt of his head and the idle scratch of his rough jaw as he considered an attractive painting as if contemplating whether to steal it or forge it…

Arthur felt the pull on his face and realized he copied Dom's expression. It no longer felt like his, though, seven months and three weeks has turned the look into an unfamiliar one. His smile dropped. His face felt stretched as if he strained unused muscles. 

His eyes narrowed in self-recrimination. Arthur distracted himself by smoothing his palm across the bar. The wood was dark, dark enough to make his hand appear almost alabaster. 

The headboard in the hotel room was like that. Eames had groaned into Arthur's ear as he crowded him up against the surface. He told Arthur he looked like the bed could swallow Arthur up and he was going to devour Arthur before he would let that happen.

The dark wood of the bed, almost black against the pale skin of his inner thigh as he was rocked higher onto a table, the stark and dusky gray sheets twisted around their intertwined legs, the deep wine reds of the carpet as Eames dug his heels deeper into the fibers so he could thrust up deep enough, hard enough until Arthur finally gave into the white flare of heat behind his eyes—

The glass squeaked across the counter as Arthur pulled the drink back towards him. He drained it dry in one draw.

Ariadne's brow was puckered as she studied the bar. "Here, though? It's a little..." she hedged.

"I like it," Arthur said with more feeling than he intended. He caught Dom and Ariadne exchanging a look. "What?"

 

 

The San Francisco warehouse was quiet save for the patter of typing. It still smelled faintly of almonds from when it was a cookie factory. Ariadne gleefully claimed it made her think of marzipan. Arthur muttered it made him think of cyanide. He ignored the responding smirk Eames tossed his way. He ignored it until Eames looked elsewhere. It pretty much set the tone for the rest of the week. And the smell of old almonds spoiled any food Arthur tried to taste. Everything tasted like death now, like dust and it felt like the lesser of two evils was to push the food away.

Arthur looked up when the back of his shoulders began to bother him. He grimaced. Damn it. Not again. The tightness burning across his shoulders and knotted on his neck vowed to be a prelude to the growing headache behind his eyes.

There were still bank statements to go through and recorded phone calls to transcribe. Arthur tried to roll his shoulders back. The loose fabric of his once fitted shirt grated against his skin. He was very aware of his scalp stretched too taut over his brow. The pulsing ache in his right ear promised tinnitus soon.

Arthur straightened up from his slouch. The throbbing in his head only sharpened. His eyes burned.

Lifting up his head as he craned to stretch his neck, Arthur caught Eames hastily looking away. 

"What?" Arthur asked.

Eames seemed fascinated with whatever was in his mug. He tipped it back into his mouth far longer than what the mug would have contained. 

"Eames," Arthur called out again, irritated. 

Eames sighed. He lowered his drink. He glanced over to Arthur. He looked like he was about to say something.

Suddenly Arthur remembered the blurry warmth pooled in his belly, his skin still damp from fevered touching and the lightheaded cold ache he felt after Eames said this wasn't going to work. 

"Never mind," Arthur said hastily as Eames's mouth opened. "I don't want to know," Arthur added as he rose to his feet. He strode past Dom, shouting about getting more coffee over his shoulder. He told himself he wasn't running. 

 

 

The projection tilted his head. His hands were still reached out towards Arthur. 

"What?" it repeated, baffled. 

"What?" Arthur panted, stunned to immobility when he realized the projection wasn't trying to rip him apart. He edged back. 

To Arthur's dismay, the dark haired projection stepped forward. 

"I said you looked stiff," the projection explained slowly as if to a child. "I said a neck massage would do you wonders."

Arthur sidestepped the wiggling fingers and pressed his mouth close to its ear.

"What are you doing?" Arthur hissed. He was sure it fell on deaf ears. Or at least Eames's. What the hell the bastard was doing? "You're supposed to be ignoring me." 

The Mark, a promiscuous assistant DA, was happily telling Eames's forged masseuse the evidence of the prosecution's case against a software executive. Arthur could hear Eames giggling in the next room of the parlor. 

Arthur's insides knotted even though he understands why Eames was laughing with another man and as whom. Nevertheless, something rankled inside as he listened. Damn Eames. They should have had Dom fill the consciousness even though he agreed that Dom's projections weren't suitable in a palace of hedonistic leisure. Dom's personality was too straight laced and lately, easily paternally appalled by many things. Ariadne's projections have the tendency to question everyone they encountered. Yusuf still has trouble controlling the environment; it rained when he was thirsty, everything vibrated when he was hungry. And Arthur reluctantly admitted that lately, his own equilibrium was lacking. His projections have a tendency to be irate at any given notice. Or none at all. 

"You're my client," Eames's projection purred. It patted the massage table. "How could I ever ignore you?"

Arthur squinted towards the table. Behind him in the next room, their Mark moaned. Arthur's skin itched. 

"Fine," Arthur snapped. He crawled up the padded table. He slumped into position. He ignored the projection's tsk. 

"So tense," it cooed. Heated hands dropped on Arthur's shoulders 

Arthur bit back a retort as he felt those large hands knead his shoulders with bruising pressure. He closed his eyes and let the hands wander up his neck, thumbs circling under his ears in soothing circles. He groaned. The fingers drifted down to frame the knot of bone at the base of his skull and—

"He got it," Ariadne burst in. She stopped in her tracks. She stared. 

"I could come back."

Arthur rolled off the table. 

"Thank god," Arthur said. He shot himself despite hearing the first strains of music starting up.

 

 

Arthur stared at the ceiling as he lay in bed. It took a moment to remember which country, which hotel and which Mark. It took another second to remember he was with a new team because Dom was taking a break from the business after Phillipa came down with chicken pox.

It was only for a week Dom had told Arthur. Arthur wasn't sure why it sounded like Dom was trying to reassure him. One week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty eight hours.

After standing in thei— _his_ empty house for thirteen minutes, Arthur emailed Susan Yearling, found a job in Toronto and flew out of LAX three hours later.

Two days after that, Arthur found another job. And another. Dream thief was a lucrative and recession-proof business.

Arthur's brow furrowed. No matter what the hotel, the bed always felt empty these days. He struggled to hear the sounds of whatever city he was in to fill the silent hotel room. He stretched out his limbs spread-eagled and filled the bed with what he could reach. He filled the gaps on the bed with his suitcase, pillows and even his damn coat.

It didn't help.

 

 

The Mark was nervous.

"People are staring," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. 

Arthur sighed to himself. He smiled kindly to their Mark. He didn't go undercover as an intern for six weeks, flirted and endured his employer's hands grabbing his ass to have the mission blown now. 

Arthur gripped the Mark's elbow and steered him deeper into the alley. 

"They're jealous," Arthur dismissed the projections glaring at them.

Their Mark shot another look at one; it kept walking back and forth at the alleyway opening. 

"Are they?" The Mark smiled thinly as he slipped his palms around to cup Arthur's ass. He squeezed, his smile widening when Arthur stepped closer.

Outside the alley, something growled.

Arthur sighed, out loud this time, when their Mark paled and let go. 

"Screw it," Arthur muttered. He swung. 

The Mark crumpled to the ground, his hands thankfully letting go. 

Outside, the growl turned to a purr. 

Arthur shook his fist loose as he glowered towards the sound.

"Seriously?" Arthur demanded as he rifled through the pockets and found the key. He tied up the Mark, patted the pervert on the cheek before trotting off to the bank where the Mark rented out a safe deposit box.

There was only an answering coo.

 

 

The PASIV whirred as it retracted the lines back into its case. Arthur roused with a grimace. That was unpleasant. He glanced over to his right to make sure Ariadne was waking up as well. She was, her knuckles grinding into her shoulder, no doubt remembering dreamed up injuries.

"We'll try again in an hour," Arthur determined as he coiled up the remaining ends and snapped the vials and dispenser closed. He looked to his left, but there was an Eames shaped space missing on the foldable lounge chair next to him.

"Went for a smoke," Dom said without looking up. He scribbled furiously on Ariadne's blueprints. He was oblivious to her glares as he marked up the margins with his comments.

Arthur's brow knitted. He considered the lounge chair. It was askew, shoved out of place.

Dom looked up. He blinked at the empty chair. "Eames left in a hurry. Come to think of it; I thought he quit smoking six months ago. When did he start again?"

Arthur shrugged. His eyes kept drifting back to the chair.

"You still have three minutes," Yusuf noted. He was hunched over one table, goggles over his squinting eyes, obscured by the steam. Arthur half expected him to start cackling like a mad scientist.

Dom frowned. "Problems?"

"Projections went berserk." Ariadne stretched her arms above her head. 

Dom's eyebrows rose. "How berserk?"

"Tried to strangle her with her own scarf," Arthur offered. He shot Ariadne a look. "I told you before you shouldn't include scarves in your dreams."

"I like scarves," Ariadne protested. She rubbed her throat ruefully. "Well… _liked_."

At Dom's look, Arthur shrugged. "We stayed on script. I was the Mark, she turned and kissed me like she's supposed to and then—"

"Eames's projections tried to strangle her with her own scarf."

Ariadne made a face. "Sounds about right." She curled a hand around her own throat. "I can still feel it squeezing around me."

Arthur gave Ariadne an awkward pat on her shoulder.

Ariadne playfully swung a fist towards Arthur. "At least they didn't do anything to you." At Dom's look, she added with a half-hearted whine, "All they did was pull him away from me and…and…"

Arthur's cheeks pinked when Dom's gaze drifted to Arthur.

"And what?"

"Hugged me," Arthur mumbled as he twisted the knobs in the PASIV.

"Hugged you?" Dom echoed. Blueprints forgotten, he stared open-mouthed at Arthur. "Wait…they…why?"

"Maybe he's very huggable," Ariadne quipped. Her death by scarf was already forgiven and forgotten.

Yusuf made an agreeing sound.

Everybody's eyes whipped towards the chemist.

Yusuf paused, lifted his eyes and floundered.

"No, I meant…" Yusuf's beaker sloshed dangerously as his hands flailed. He gestured towards the cartons on the table they used as a catch-all. 

"Lunch?" Yusuf offered desperately. Attention diverted, Yusuf hunched back over his station, his eyes critically watching the progress of whatever violet solution he was boiling over a Bunsen burner. 

Arthur studied the various takeout containers. Curry Pagoda. Yusuf ordered food again.

"Ugh," Ariadne said with feeling. She went over and made a face at the cartons. "Chinese curry? Again?"

"Oi, if you don't like it, you order next time."

"I was busy being choked to death by my own scarf!" Ariadne grumbled as she opened the containers. She made a face to each one.

"If you don't like it," Dom said with the long suffering voice of a father used to negotiating with his children, "Go out there and get it yourself."

Ariadne cast sad eyes onto Arthur.

Arthur shrugged as he picked up the smallest carton with more enthusiasm than he really felt. Everything tasted like dust for months. It didn't matter who ordered what. He poked the contents and managed a few spoonfuls of rice before he gave up. 

For some reason, Dom glared.

Ariadne sighed.

Yusuf muttered he'll pick up a pizza next time.

Arthur checked the warehouse door, but Eames never darkened the entry. His stomach churned and he dragged his eyes away. He nudged the Masala and wontons aside; Eames was the only one who liked those anyway.

 

 

Eames had left his worn evergreen t-shirt in Arthur's closet in the house in Whittler. The one story ranch style house was listed under Arthur's mother's maiden name. They found themselves there more often than a hotel; closer to Dom's family, Arthur reasoned. (It was an hour's drive.) An extra bedroom, Eames agreed in return. (Except Eames never spent a night in the room.) 

After what Eames said to Arthur that morning, he packed quickly while trying to look like he wasn't. Arthur sat on the couch, drinking his coffee while trying to look like he wasn't watching Eames leave.

Arthur found the shirt when he sorted through his things to make another go bag; in their line of work, there can never be too many.

The shirt must have fallen off its hanger at one point or another. Arthur found it curled like a resentful bundle at the back of his closet. 

Arthur considered burning it but thought it was childish and nothing Arthur the Point Man would do. Arthur the ex-boyfriend, however, wished he could call Mal and sleep on her couch and watch incomprehensible foreign television and listened to an inebriated Mal inaccurately describe the scene.

But Mal was dead. Dom offered his couch, tucked a blanket around Arthur's shoulders when Arthur fell asleep, but he was terrible at watching bad movies with Arthur. Dom tried, but it wasn't the same. And it wasn't possible even as a dream anymore, not without it ending with a Mal neither wanted to remember. 

So Arthur the ex-boyfriend stayed Arthur the Point Man because it hurt so much fucking less.

 

 

The projection winked at Arthur.

Arthur paused. His cup of cappuccino was perfect because Ariadne built Paris to a tee. He suspected Ariadne was building out of memory again despite Dom's constant advisement against it. But everything here tasted as he remembered. Real or not, it was nice to finally have food taste like something other than death.

Then Eames's subconscious ruined it by filling the dreamscape with swarmy waiters in tight fitting white shirts.

Dom didn't look up to see the waiter winking at Arthur. Why would he? This was only an exercise to try Yusuf's latest concoction before testing it on their latest Mark.

The newest brain they were going to rummage around in was a paranoid bastard who hid his passwords. Too well. An ill-welcomed car accident knocked the location out of his memory. It was the first time a Mark hired them to be their Mark. Lucratively, too.

Paranoid minds, however, were worse than militarized ones. The projections could attack even before a threat was ascertained. Hence Yusuf's recipe to lower inhibitions and relax the subject to the point of euphoria.

In other words, get their subject high enough to be its own 747.

The formula seemed to work. At least three minutes down. Arthur strolled about the _Champs Elysées_ with an M-90 blatantly tucked against his hip. 

No one batted an eye. In fact, some even smiled at Arthur with all the fondness of a doting aunt.

Dom, in the meantime, spent the first few minutes shouting like a pariah, hollering, "I'm here to steal your secrets, Eames!" and "This is me stealing your secrets, Eames!" 

Nothing.

Arthur got tired of carrying his weapon. Imagined or not, the thing was unweldy. He went to the café at the corner and ordered a double and an almond croissant. As he nibbled on the surprisingly tasty treat (it tasted like the one he and Eames once sampled in New York before they decided sex wasn't enough to stay together—Eames's exact words, not his), Dom twirled around like he was Julie Andrews, bellowing he was the greatest extractor on Mars.

…..

Arthur made a mental note to check with Yusuf about dosages in relation to personality types. And Dom.

Satisfied Eames's projections weren't going to tear them from limb to limb (Arthur never forgave Nash and his stupid setup that allowed rampaging protestors to find them and do just that), Dom dropped down in the seat next to Arthur and began to critically examine the typography of the slicked menu. He pulled out a marker out of thin air and started correcting whatever imagined flaw only he could see. Ariadne was going to kill him when she comes back from her finals.

"Would you like another danish, darling?"

Arthur blinked. He looked up at the dark haired, smoky eyed waiter. His eyes were wide, riveted to Arthur like _Arthur_ was the danish he would very much like to have. Jesus, why did all of Eames's projections looked like they're one exhale away from sex?

"No, thank you," Arthur said primly, unable to stop the hackles from rising. The waiter—despite the lack of accent—sounded too much like Eames. Like when Eames had slipped a hand on Arthur's hip and murmured it would be a shame to waste such an early night. They ended up in Arthur's bed, Arthur's ankles by Eames' ears, Eames pounding into him as he breathlessly chanted Arthur's name. And they kept doing this: the sultry half finished sentences and full meaning gazes until Eames, over coffee and a shared cranberry muffin, told Arthur this wouldn't last because it's just sex.

Just sex? Arthur wondered if waking up before Eames to trace a light finger over the tattoo on his left shoulder counted as sex. Did sharing an omelet because Arthur never had more than one place setting in each bolt hole counted as just sex? Was sending random emails, unrelated to work even if they were continents apart, just sex?

Arthur had stared at Eames, wiped his mouth clean with a napkin and told Eames he would see him on their next job in Tuscan.

Six jobs later, Arthur and Eames worked together like nothing happened. 

Maybe Eames was right. Maybe it was just sex.

A scrape of a chair drew Arthur out of his thoughts. He stared at the projection that helped himself to the empty seat next to Arthur.

Dom finally tore his eyes away from the menu. He stared.

"Arthur?" Dom asked warily. He leaned back into his seat. 

"I don't know," Arthur said out of the side of his mouth, "Ask Eames." He cleared his throat. "Hi."

The projection beamed back. "Hello." He wagged a finger at Arthur. "You didn't finish your food." The projection pouted. "You never finish your food."

Arthur blankly stared at his plate. He blinked. Suddenly there was a whole Sunday dinner on his plate. He could smell the sweetness of tomatoes and a damningly familiar sausage dressing piled on top of a stack of turkey dripping with gravy.

Dom frowned. "That’s not something you get from a place like this," he chided.

Arthur helplessly shrugged. "I asked for a danish. It was a danish before."

Dom looked thoughtful. He turned to the waiter, who was staring at Arthur with his chin resting on the heel of his hand.

"I would like a danish," Dom said.

The waiter nodded. He waved dismissively towards Dom.

Dom and Arthur peered down at his plate. 

It was an acorn. Something took a bite out of it.

Arthur fidgeted under Dom's speculative gaze. He gestured towards his feast. Dom reached for the pumpernickel dinner roll wedged under the slab of prime rib. Wait, wasn't it turkey before?

"That's for darling," the waiter snapped and slapped Dom's hand away.

Dom held his injured hand. He stared at the waiter, his mouth agape. After a beat, his gaze dragged over to Arthur.

"Darling?" Dom repeated.

"I need some fresh air," Arthur said abruptly. He pulled out his Glock, pressed it to his temples and pulled the trigger.

 

 

Arthur jackknifed out of the chair. He glared at Eames and Dom still under the drugged guiles of the PASIV.

"No good?" Yusuf squinted at Arthur through his rectangular spectacles. "You're early."

Arthur pointed to Eames. He looked deceptively innocent sleeping with a half smile on his stubbled face. He locked his knees before he could give in to the urge to kick the chair.

"How much did you give him?" Arthur demanded.

Yusuf frowned. "Why? What happened?"

Arthur was tempted to run a hand through his hair, but he gelled it because he hated how the bangs fell over his eyes and made him look like he was barely legal enough to dress himself.

"He, his projections—"

"Crying," Dom announced as he stretched.

Yusuf's frown deepened. "You're early too."

"I needed to get out of there." Dom made a face. "There was so much crying."

"Crying?" Arthur parroted.

"Ugly crying," Dom amended. "After you got out, all the café staff ran out and wept over your body."

"Wept?" Arthur repeated.

Dom smiled ruefully. "There were a lot of ways to go but drowning by tears was a first."

"Drowning?" Arthur stared. "Tears?"

Dom waved both arms above him, "It was a tsunami of sorrow that crashed over me."

Arthur felt two pairs of eyes at him. He bristled.

"I have no idea what's going on."

Dom studied Eames with an unreadable expression.

"I don't think Eames does, either," Dom said cryptically.

 

 

When Eames opened his eyes, he glanced up, took one look at Arthur's stormy expression and declared he needed a good fag.

It took Arthur a few seconds before he remembered that 'fag' meant 'cigarette.' He huffed and swiveled toward the PASIV.

"I got this." Dom's hand dropped onto Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur shrugged it off. "You never get the lines clean enough," he muttered as he detached the tubing. 

"I could use the practice." Dom plopped down into the chair Eames vacated. He studied Arthur. He didn't reach for the PASIV despite his insistence.

"Dom," Arthur said tightly. "Now's not the time."

"Nine months ago, it wasn't the time either," Dom said in a tone Arthur could see him use on Jamie and Phillipa. "I was more than fine to have you show up then and use my couch and say nothing, but today?" Dom smiled thinly.

"I think Eames said a lot more than you have." 

Arthur set his jaw. He jerked at the IV lines harder than necessary. The spool in the case squealed in protest. 

Dom sighed. "I'm not Mal." He choked at his wife's name but continued. "If I was, I would know what to say. To either of you." He tapped the silver case, his eyes distant. "I think, though, she would say second chances are actually harder than the first, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't take it."

Arthur dropped his hands to hang over his knees. He stared at the PASIV. 

"What makes you think there's a second chance?" Arthur asked finally.

"I think Eames has been asking for one." Dom took the PASIV from Arthur. "And I think he'll keep asking whether he's aware of it or not."

"He's aware," Yusuf announced. When Dom and Arthur looked up, startled, Yusuf's shoulders briefly lifted. "He's a bloody morose drunk." He dangled a test tube at them. He shook his head in mock despair. "And I gave him a lighter dose than you two. His subconscious was already embarrassing enough from what I heard." 

Arthur tore his gaze away and considered the chair Dom claimed. His chest clenched. He took a deep breath and followed after Eames, ignoring Yusuf and Dom's knowing smiles.

Eames had a head start, but Arthur spotted the tiny white puffs of smoke popping out around the corner of a warehouse parallel to theirs. He knew he was spotted when Eames's broad shoulders tensed. Eames didn't run, though. He left his cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

Arthur leaned on the wall next to Eames. He plucked the cigarette out of Eames's mouth and took a deep puff. He gagged. Eames never smoked anything unless it was drenched in tar. All those months without smoking apparently haven't changed Eames's preferences. Nevertheless, Arthur took another deep inhale. He made another face as smoke scoured his throat.

"You should quit," Arthur wheezed. "Again." He took one last drag before he flicked the stub away. He watched the embers winked out of existence when it landed on the asphalt.

"You're talking about the smoking, of course," Eames said. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. His eyes stayed on the discarded cigarette.

"The smoking," Arthur said, not agreeing or disagreeing.

Eames heaved out a sigh. It came out long, loud and weary.

"What about the other thing?" Eames squared back his shoulders.

"You already quit," Arthur reminded him. 

Eames's mouth twisted. "Yes. I did." He took a deep breath. "But I shouldn't have."

Arthur dropped his eyes to the stub he threw away. He watched the ash tumble under a breeze he couldn't feel.

"Oh," Arthur said. He wasn't sure what else he should say. He didn't want to try. He didn't want to hear himself try. 

Eames's shoulder gently bumped against Arthur's. The heat of his hip soaked deep into Arthur's body. Arthur kept his eyes on the pavement ahead. But he didn't move away when Eames shuffled closer.

Something settled and locked in place deep inside Arthur as they stood there, shoulders touching, their shadows overlapping on the ground.

"How did you know about the dressing?" Arthur said finally. 

Eames shrugged. "I asked around."

"Funny," Arthur remarked lightly, carefully around the knot tentatively loosening in his chest. "It's been so long; I didn't think there was anyone left to ask." He slanted a look at Eames.

"Just sex?" Arthur asked.

Eames scratched his jaw. His mouth crooked as he gazed back.

"Well," Eames croaked, "I could be wrong about that." He twisted towards Arthur.

Arthur's lips stretched a brittle line across his face. "Possibly."

Eames brushed a thumb across Arthur's lower lip.

"No, I'm certain I was wrong," Eames murmured. He lowered his head.

Arthur wished he didn't flinch.

Eames recoiled. His hands dropped to his sides. He stared at Arthur, his mouth curled downward, his eyes bleak.

Arthur tentatively took a step closer. He felt his breath short and quick in the base of his throat as he lifted a hand and curled it around the back of Eames's neck.

With a groan, Eames sagged forward. 

Arthur's eyes slid closed as he leaned in to meet Eames half way.

Their mouths slotted over each other like it was the first time, every time, always. Arthur tasted the burnt tang of smoke in Eames' breath. He shuddered over the rough texture of Eames' cheek when Eames rubbed his jaw against him.

"I'm a prat," Eames muttered into Arthur's open mouth. Thick muscular arms snaked around Arthur's torso and held tight. "I'm sorry."

Arthur gripped the back of Eames' shirt. He nipped the line of his throat. He marked inked skin with a benediction.

"I want to wake up next to you every day. I want to make your favorite food for real, not just in your dreams." Eames cupped Arthur's ass and drew him even closer. 

"If you're sure." Arthur buried his face over Eames's clavicle. "Only if you're sure."

Eames peppered his yes all over Arthur's face. 

They would have gladly continued if Yusuf didn't run out to tell them Dom was running around in circles, arms flapping, hollering he was king of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: as I write my third Alec/Logan book and go through every doubt and worry known to every writer, I thought experimenting (no, not like that! lol) with new fandoms would make good practice.
> 
> Due to the current situation over at LiveJournal, all my writings will move to AO3 and my often boring musings will now be on Tumblr:
> 
>  
> 
> [D8rkmessngr's Tumblr](http://d8rkmessngr.tumblr.com/)


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